


Obsessed

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Baseball, Blow Jobs, Day 4 - Clothes/Accessories Swap, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-20 18:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3660834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Gokudera turns the jersey around, considers the number printed against the back, the name in smaller letters just above it. 'I could put this on and I’d be wearing the ace’s jersey.'" Gokudera tries on Yamamoto's baseball uniform and Yamamoto likes it. A lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obsessed

“Okay,” Gokudera says, sounding skeptical. “What about the number, then?”

They’re on Yamamoto’s bed, watching a baseball game on the tiny television Yamamoto has set up on the desk he is ostensibly supposed to use for schoolwork. The size of the screen and the proximity to the bed means that in order for them both to watch Gokudera has to be all but on Yamamoto’s lap, which in turn means that Yamamoto isn’t watching much of anything except Gokudera, wasn’t even before the other demanded an explanation for the various intricacies of the gameplay. It’s not like Yamamoto’s going to complain, though; even if it means missing a baseball game, the payoff seems worth it.

“Hmm,” he offers, shutting his eyes for a minute so he can press his nose to Gokudera’s hair and breathe in against the pale strands. Gokudera growls something wordless, reaches up to push him away, but there’s no force to his touch, just the glancing impact of his fingers so gentle it’s more caress than rejection. “It’s the position in the team. Most of them don’t matter a lot, except for the ace.”

“Which one’s that?” Gokudera’s not looking up; his attention is fixed on the screen, his brow creased in concentration, leaving Yamamoto free to watch shadows of reaction chase each other over the other’s features without getting yelled at.

“Number one,” he says, lets one of his arms looped around Gokudera go to point at the screen. “The pitcher, usually.”

“No way,” Gokudera scoffs, sounding so certain of himself Yamamoto is taken aback. “You might be able to fool me about other things, but that one I know.”

Yamamoto laughs, easy if faint around confusion. “What? I’m not trying to fool you, it is number one.”

“Idiot.” Gokudera reaches up again, his palm bumping against Yamamoto’s forehead with what might charitably be called a smack, given that Yamamoto’s pretty sure Gokudera doesn’t intend to let his fingers linger and drag along the other’s jawline. “Like I don’t know what uniform number you wear. It’s the only thing worth keeping track of at those stupid games you drag me to.”

Yamamoto smiles, laughs soft and gentle. “That’s because I  _am_  the ace.”

“You are  _not_.” Gokudera looks away from the screen, twists himself around to glare up at Yamamoto. “Not even a baseball team can be so hard up they’d make  _you_  the star of the show.”

“You’ve seen enough of my games,” Yamamoto points out reasonably. “Who do you think it is?”

“I--” Gokudera starts, stops, closes his mouth hard and narrows his eyes at Yamamoto. “Shut up, I don’t even know the rules of this stupid game, how am I supposed to know?”

“Do you know the name of anyone else on the team?” Yamamoto asks.

Gokudera is glaring at him, now, his eyes sparking bright and sharp with irritation. “I don’t pay attention to your  _stupid_  games,” he says, and Yamamoto really has irritated him because he’s pushing away, tugging free of the other’s hold and moving to stand instead of sitting on the bed. “You’re trying to tell me  _your_  baseball uniform is the most important one of the team.”

“Well, the whole team is more important than any one--”

“I don’t want another lecture,” Gokudera snaps. He moves across the room, towards the bag Yamamoto dropped after school yesterday and forgot about. The uniform jersey is at the top, wrinkled and a little dusty from practice; Gokudera closes his fist on it, lifts it up for Yamamoto’s consideration.

“This one.” He turns it around, considers the number printed against the back, the name in smaller letters just above it. “I could put this on and  _I’d_  be wearing the ace’s jersey.”

He sounds skeptical, teasing, like he’s pushing Yamamoto to admit it was all some odd joke. But Yamamoto blinks, his vision giving way to imagination for a moment, and when he answers he sounds a lot more strangled than he means to.

“Yeah.” He coughs, takes a breath. “Yes, you would.”

Gokudera’s looking at him, when he glances up from the pattern of the jersey to meet the other boy’s eyes. Gokudera’s gaze is narrowed, considering Yamamoto’s features like he’s reading a whole infinity of detail off what Yamamoto is trying to make a perfectly unsuspicious expression.

“Okay,” he says, slow and contemplative, and then he’s swinging the jersey around, sliding it up over his shoulders and shrugging until it falls around his waist. “Am I the ace, now?”

Yamamoto’s not sure what it is that is making his heart race. There’s something in the glint in Gokudera’s eyes, the way his jersey hangs loose and overlarge off the other’s shoulders, the arrogant tilt to the other’s chin like he knows the image he’s presenting. But Yamamoto can’t catch a breath, can feel his forehead creasing into what almost feels like pain, and when he shifts his weight to get more comfortable it’s a completely futile cause.

“Well?” Gokudera demands. Yamamoto looks back up to his face, caught out in his distraction, and it takes him a moment to place the question.

“Oh.” He shakes his head, ducks his chin and takes a breath. “Not really. It doesn’t look right, like that.”

“What doesn’t look right?” Gokudera snaps, sounding offended and edgy, and Yamamoto had just meant the jersey is too big, has the wrong name, sits awkward on Gokudera’s self-conscious shoulders.

He says none of that. Instead he looks at the line of the shirt, the way it falls just past the other’s hips, and takes a breath, prepares himself for a possible explosion. “You’re not really supposed to wear it over other clothes.”

The room is very quiet for a moment. Yamamoto wants to look up at Gokudera’s face but he doesn’t have the courage to do so; it’s safer to watch the shift of the other’s hands, the way the rings at his fingers catch the light as his hands curl into fists at the bottom edge of the jersey.

“Ah,” he says, finally, sounding so not-furious Yamamoto looks up before he can think. But Gokudera’s not looking at him, he has his head ducked so his hair falls over his face, and he’s shrugging the uniform shirt off without looking up so Yamamoto so see what face he’s making. For a minute Yamamoto thinks the topic is closed, if with less of a fight than he was expecting, that Gokudera will come back to join him on the bed and they won’t ever speak of this again.

Then Gokudera’s fingers close on the bottom of his t-shirt, and he’s twisting it up over his head, and in the first glow of sunlight off pale skin all Yamamoto’s breath leaves his lungs at once.

“Don’t stare,” Gokudera says as he emerges from the cloth, still not looking at Yamamoto’s face. Yamamoto can hear the heat in his voice nonetheless, the burn of embarrassment that must be spread across the other’s cheeks clearly audible in his voice. “Pervert.” His shoulders shift, the line of his back curving as he bends over, and then he’s sliding the jersey back on and fastening the buttons down the front.

It fits better, this time, without the clothing on underneath it. It’s still a little too broad in the shoulders, a little too wide in the waist, but when Yamamoto blinks Gokudera shifts, arches his back and straightens his shoulders, and he looks like a real baseball player for a breath. His chin is up again, his head tipped back as if in a taunt, and when Yamamoto looks up there’s heat behind the green of Gokudera’s eyes, a suggestion and a dare rolled into one.

“How about now?” He sets his feet, crosses his arms over his chest and tips his hip to the side, just enough that the fabric catches at his waist and falls out against him. “Authentic enough for you?”

“Oh,” Yamamoto says, faint and desperate and breathless. “Oh, wow, Hayato.”

A silver eyebrow goes up, some of the arrogant teasing in Gokudera’s expression flickering into something else entirely. “Are you  _into_  this?”

Yamamoto can’t think. Words are beyond him, hovering at some impossible distance from his grasp, any denial rendered utterly impossible by the burn under his skin, the ache of desire so strong he feels it like an impact to his stomach. His silence speaks for him, he suspects, has an idea that his expression is as clear for Gokudera to understand as a book, but when he slides off the bed to kneel on the floor, to lift his hands out in silent request, Gokudera laughs shocked and bright and comes in without the usual protest or sarcasm he would offer.

“I should have known,” he says, reaching out to twist his fingers into Yamamoto’s hair as he comes close enough for the other to catch at his hips, to pull him in so Yamamoto can breathe in the baseball-diamond dust off the cloth. “You  _would_  have a kink for baseball uniforms.”

“It’s not just that,” Yamamoto says. The shirt is loose, pushes up easily under his fingers, and Gokudera is breathing harder over him, the pale flat of his stomach trembling with the pace of his breathing. Yamamoto leans in, shuts his eyes while he presses his mouth to the familiar stretch of skin.

Gokudera’s hand in his hair drags hard, pulling so sharply it’s nearly painful, and when he speaks his voice is rough and strained around heat. “What  _is_  it, then?”

“It’s you,” Yamamoto says, because it’s true, because if Gokudera would let him he’d do this all the time, regardless of what the other boy was or wasn’t wearing. But there’s more there, too: “It’s my uniform” is also true. Some strange ache of possessiveness in his chest is soothed by the fabric of his jersey around Gokudera’s shoulders, the shape of his name printed out over the shirt covering Gokudera’s skin.

Gokudera laughs over him, the sharp-edged burst of sound that means he’s truly amused. “You never make any sense.” Yamamoto turns his head, tries touching his tongue to the line of Gokudera’s hip leading down to the edge of the other’s pants, and Gokudera hisses heat, his fingers going tighter. “I still think it’s just the uniform. Baseball freak.”

Yamamoto takes a breath, lets a hand slide along the line of Gokudera’s belt. “Hayato,” and he pauses, hesitates with his fingers just shy of the other boy’s buckle. “Can I?”

“Am I stopping you?” Gokudera asks, his voice snapping the question rhetorical, and Yamamoto doesn’t have to look up to see the frown Gokudera always gets when he’s half-embarrassed and half-interested. It makes him smile, the expression coming easy and soft against Gokudera’s skin, and then he’s tugging the weight of the buckle loose, pulling the fastenings open with the ease of experience. He doesn’t have to look at what he’s doing, doesn’t need to pull away from the pattern of kisses he’s fitting to Gokudera’s stomach, waist, the edge of his hip; it’s easy enough to handle buckles and buttons and zippers one-handed, until he can slide his other hand down from Gokudera’s waist to push at the fabric clinging to his hips instead. The jersey falls back with the loss of Yamamoto’s hold, dropping between Yamamoto’s mouth and Gokudera’s skin, but Gokudera’s jeans are slipping off his hips too, leaving the exchange of pale legs for the flat of his bare stomach and catching the thin fabric of the uniform at the rising heat of his cock as Yamamoto gets his jeans loose.

It’s too hard to bother with getting the clothes off completely; more than enough to strip Gokudera down to his knees, to leave his clothes rumpled around his feet so Yamamoto can reach back up and push the jersey back up to bare Gokudera for his gaze. Gokudera’s starting to go hard, between the touch of Yamamoto’s hands and the press of his mouth, but Yamamoto doesn’t pause to take the time to stroke him to full heat; he just pins the shirt up around Gokudera’s waist with his hand, ducks his head in and opens his mouth to suck Gokudera past his lips and against his tongue. He can feel the other’s reaction better this way, the twitch of heat rushing him on to full arousal clear against Yamamoto’s mouth, and it’s easier to move anyway, easy to fit the whole of the other boy’s length in his mouth at once until Yamamoto’s lips are brushing the very base of Gokudera’s cock.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Gokudera blurts over him, his fingers dragging at Yamamoto’s hair so hard it aches, the sensation radiating out over Yamamoto’s scalp until it turns to heat, sparking down his spine and settling into a pool low in his stomach. He thinks Gokudera is leaning in over him, curving his spine until the soft of the uniform is catching at Yamamoto’s hair, but he’s not sure and he’s not pausing to find out; Gokudera is going fully hard against his tongue, hot and hard until Yamamoto has to pull back a little just so he can keep breathing. He starts moving, carefully, pressing his thumbs in gently to Gokudera’s waist and drawing back slowly, so he can drag his tongue up against the underside of the other’s length as he goes. Gokudera shudders and spits the first half of some curse, maybe something in Italian that Yamamoto can’t parse into meaning. Yamamoto can taste the other’s rising interest on his tongue, the familiar bitterness of Gokudera turning his tongue slick and hot, and he wants to see the other boy’s face but he can’t manage it from this angle and he doesn’t want to pull away until he can. He keeps moving instead, leaning in as far as he can until the back of his throat is tense in anticipation of contact, until he has to pull back, slide his mouth off completely so he can catch his breath and rest his jaw for a moment. He brings his hand in sideways instead, braces the jersey up against Gokudera’s chest so he can hold it up with one hand and bring the other down to wrap his fingers around the spit-slick length of Gokudera’s cock.

“You look so good,” Yamamoto says, his voice swinging low and trembling as he looks back and up to meet Gokudera’s eyes. The other boy is staring down at him, his lips parted like he’s having trouble breathing and his eyes hot and shadowed. He tries to frown when he sees Yamamoto watching him, opens his mouth to say something, and Yamamoto’s fingers slip, twist up against the other’s length in a motion that is more reflexive than deliberate. Gokudera’s eyes shut, his frown melts away as his mouth comes open, and the sound he makes ends up being a groan rather than something more coherent. It jolts all through Yamamoto, brings him rocking half-upright over his knees, and he’s stroking faster without meaning to, his fingers tightening and his wrist twisting in instinctive response to the shudder of reaction washing over Gokudera’s expression.

“Hayato,” he says, just tasting the name on his tongue more than asking for any constructive response, and the hand in his hair twists hard, Gokudera’s hips rock forward to thrust out-of-time into Yamamoto’s hold.

“Just don’t stop,” he demands, the sharp edges of his tone dulled by the pleasure-hazed resonance of his voice, and Yamamoto capitulates, ducks his head and opens his mouth again as if Gokudera’s tone held a command for more all in itself. He’s salty again, the taste so strong Yamamoto just licks against the dark-flushed head of his cock for a moment, sucking the slick liquid off Gokudera’s skin until he can hear the edge of a wail under the other’s inhales, the pressure of oncoming orgasm twisting hard at Gokudera’s hold in Yamamoto’s hair. Then he shuts his eyes, opens his mouth wider, and slides his lips down against the other’s cock to bump in against the top of his bracing fingers. Gokudera groans encouragement, his hand falling from Yamamoto’s hair to grab desperately at the other’s shoulder, and Yamamoto’s other hand is twisting tighter too, clinging to the rumpled edge of the baseball jersey like he’s bracing himself in place. Gokudera is hot against his tongue, the bitter taste of the other boy’s skin collecting at the back of his throat and the resistance of his body hard under Yamamoto’s touch, and Yamamoto tightens his lips and sucks hard at the flushed-sensitive skin. Gokudera takes a sharp inhale, choking off into the silence of anticipation; then Yamamoto shifts his tongue, licks against the salt at the head of Gokudera’s cock, and Gokudera shakes himself into orgasm under the pressure. Yamamoto keeps stroking over him through the waves of heat over his tongue, swallowing as fast as Gokudera comes and drawing it out as long as he can with the continued motion, until finally Gokudera pulls at his hair to urge him off.

“Enough,” he manages, sounding hoarse and shaky, and Yamamoto pulls back, breathing as hard as if he’s the one who just came. His mouth is full of the taste of Gokudera, his lips warm from the heat of the other’s skin, and when he tips his head up Gokudera is moving to meet him, dropping to his knees himself so he can draw Yamamoto in for a kiss. His mouth is hot too, his tongue sliding gentle friction against Yamamoto’s lips, until Yamamoto is breathless and glazed when the other boy draws back to blink at him.

“Lean back,” Gokudera orders, pushing at Yamamoto’s shoulder, and Yamamoto goes, sliding his weight back until he’s sitting on the floor instead of balanced on his knees. It’s easier to fit his legs around Gokudera like this, too, to draw the other boy in closer to fit between his knees and inside the curve of his arms, until Yamamoto is melting his way to satisfaction before Gokudera huffs a laugh and reaches down to grind his palm against the front of Yamamoto’s jeans.

“Shit,” Gokudera breathes, his eyebrows going up as he leans in to press down harder, like he’s drawing the gasp of Yamamoto’s breath out of him with the push of his hand. “You’re so fucking hard for me in your uniform.”

Yamamoto whines, half-formed protest shattered incoherent by the heat surging through him from Gokudera’s touch. He reaches out, closes his fingers at the shoulder of the jersey, clinging to the fabric in a desperate bid to maintain his composure. “It’s not the uniform,” he says, caveats, “Not completely. It’s--” His breathing sticks, his hips rocking up off the floor to meet Gokudera’s hand. “--You, mostly.”

“You’re a mess,” Gokudera declares like a verdict. He’s pulling his hand away, retracting the contact Yamamoto so desperately wants, but before Yamamoto can do more than drag helpless protest at Gokudera’s sleeve there are fingers pulling at his zipper, unfastening his button with more dexterity than he could manage himself right now. Yamamoto doesn’t bother trying to form a pointless denial; he just ducks his head to rest against Gokudera’s collarbone, blinks his eyes into focus so he can watch Gokudera’s fingers pulling his clothes aside, can see the pale of the other boy’s fingers curling in to close against his cock. It’s just pressure at first, the sensation twisting into his body with the thrumming ache of anticipation; then Gokudera slides his hand up, the pressure turns into heat, and Yamamoto’s head goes back, falls heavily against the edge of the bed.

“ _Ah_.” He’s rocking up again, his hips leaving the floor completely so he can thrust himself in against Gokudera’s touch, and Gokudera is laughing the gasping breathless laughter of overheated amusement, reaching out to grab at Yamamoto’s leg to press him back down. Yamamoto is dragging at the jersey, pulling it sideways on Gokudera’s shoulders, but he’s not thinking about that at all; the pull is more to urge Gokudera in closer, to beg for more of the other’s heat, than to drag his clothes half-off. “Hayato,” and he’s panting, he’s sitting flat on the floor again but he’s talking without thinking, blurting the thoughts skidding through his mind as fast as they appear. “Hayato, I love you, I do.”

“You always say that,” Gokudera hums. When Yamamoto lifts his head to blink at him he’s smiling, the usual sharp edge to his gaze gone a little softer at the edges. “Only when you want something from me.”

“It’s true,” Yamamoto protests. His legs are shaking, the motion as impossible to stop as if Gokudera’s touch were electric, taking over his body and pulling it inevitably towards pleasure. “It’s always true, Hayato.”

“Be quiet,” Gokudera says, leans in to kiss Yamamoto silent. Yamamoto shuts his eyes to that, fits his free hand into Gokudera’s hair to hold him there, and Gokudera doesn’t draw back, just licks in against Yamamoto’s mouth as his hand moves faster, quickly enough that Yamamoto starts to lose track of the individual motions of the other’s fingers. It’s a blur of heat and friction and movement, Gokudera’s mouth open against his and Gokudera’s fingers dragging over him, and Yamamoto’s hands are caught in the other boy’s hair and the familiar texture of his own baseball jersey at once. His attention skids out, catches on those two points of reference for his thoughts to orbit while his body starts to shudder in expectation of satisfaction. The fabric is soft to the touch, nearly as soft as the strands of Gokudera’s hair, clinging close against the other boy’s skin like it’s an extension of Yamamoto’s own constant desire for contact. He wonders if the cloth will hold Gokudera’s scent, if maybe the next time he puts it on it will carry the faint spicy catch of silver hair, the tracery of familiarity catching at the fabric as it catches all Yamamoto’s memories. It would be like having Gokudera with him while he plays, holding some proof of him close, and Yamamoto’s throat goes slack on a moan at the thought as he shivers himself straight over into pleasure under Gokudera’s dragging hand. The heat rushes through him in waves, each one endless and expansive, until even when Gokudera pulls back and lets his hold go Yamamoto still can’t stop himself trembling.

“Jesus,” Gokudera sighs, making a face at the mess across Yamamoto’s shirt and on his own hand. “You’re a wreck.” He considers the room, visibly looking for a tissue or a towel before glancing down at the jersey and moving to wipe his hand clean against it.

“ _No_ ,” Yamamoto insists, lunging forward to grab at Gokudera’s wrist. “No, wait, I have tissues, just give me a sec.”

Gokudera is staring at him, eyebrows drawn together in suspicious confusion. “Why? Wasn’t this dirty to begin with?”

“Just wait.” Yamamoto reaches out for the tissues by the head of the bed, keeping his hold on Gokudera’s wrist just to be safe. Gokudera is still gazing at him with an eyebrow raised, but he doesn’t pull away, lets Yamamoto retain his hold as the other boy wipes his hand mostly clean.

“Baseball idiot,”Gokudera declares as Yamamoto releases his hand and reaches to peel his own dirty shirt off his head. “I didn’t expect you to be so protective of your uniform.”

Yamamoto laughs, and Gokudera doesn’t say anything else, which he is pretty sure means the subject is over. By the time they’re on their feet and he’s gotten his pants back on and located a clean shirt Gokudera is pulling the jersey off, casting it back into the corner and retrieving his own shirt. He looks more himself in his usual clothing, even if the loss of the uniform gives Yamamoto a pang of regret.

Gokudera must pick up on it, or maybe Yamamoto’s expression is more clear than he thinks. The other is frowning when Yamamoto looks at him, his arms crossed to say he is seriously irritated, this time.

“So what, then, you’re just into me when I’m wearing your stupid uniform?” he asks, shoulders hunching in like he’s bracing for a blow. His tone is half-sarcastic but his frown is sincere, his bruised feelings clear to Yamamoto’s experience.

Yamamoto smiles, reaches out to touch Gokudera’s hip and draw the other in closer. Gokudera resists at first, a hesitation in his feet before he submits to the tug, but he goes warm when Yamamoto drapes an arm around his shoulders, lets his arms uncross when the other kisses at his hair.

“Not just that,” Yamamoto says, quietly so Gokudera can pretend he didn’t hear if he wants. “I love you all the time.” He grins, a flash of bright amusement Gokudera can’t see for the way the other boy’s head is pressed into his shoulder. “I’ll show you right now, if you want. Without the uniform.”

A hand digs into his ribs, the press of rings against knuckles sinking into his skin until he has to laugh breathlessly and flinch back from the impact. “ _Pervert_ ,” Gokudera growls, his tone grating and irritated, and Yamamoto laughs again and steps back, drawing Gokudera down to drop beside him on the bed. He’s not surprised when Gokudera follows his lead, replacing his hold on Yamamoto’s hair and pulling to drag the other’s head back so he can fit his mouth in against Yamamoto’s pulse in his throat.

It wasn’t a  _no_ , after all.


End file.
